The Narcissist's Unmaking
by Book Light
Summary: Allen, the redhead stylist, is the resident jerk. He knows exactly what he is made of but not necessarily what he wants. Is Rio one of them? Get in on his thoughts as she slowly unmakes the beloved jerk.
1. Prologue

_So… after two years, I have come back! I actually never thought I'd go back but Allen kept bugging me and giving me love chills._

_In those two years, I only opened my account once or twice. _**To those who were waiting for the final update of Five Instances in the THG fandom, I am incredibly grateful for your enthusiasm. I feel so blessed! However, I am sorry to say I don't have plans of foregoing with that project anymore.** *goes hide in a closet*

_Anyway, moving on, this story was borne out of my frustration with Allen. I don't usually like the douchebag types but there's something about Allen. (His hot face and hair and everything) I like to think that he's hiding some angst/inner fluff underneath his jerk exterior… or maybe I am giving him too much credit. Oh well, papel._

_So, without further ado, here's the prologue to __**The Narcissist's Unmaking**__. A sneak preview to angst-Allen. Although I warn you this is going to be more fluff sooner or later._

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

Nestled between humble mountains and inconspicuous nowhere, Echo Town laid before Allen, in the shadow of its former glory – that is to say, in the stylist's words, old news.

"This is it?" Allen grumbled to himself as he stood atop the cliffs overlooking his new home.

The wind rolled off his skin in gentle waves, brushing deeper into his thin jacket before going on its way. (His hair had probably been blown into disarray but the 'just got out of bed' look suited him just fine too.) It tasted of dew, mint and a hint of flora; so unlike the smoke and grime filled air his lungs had grown accustomed to. He almost felt like a fish out of muddied water, choking in the absence of its drug.

"Lovely," he adds begrudgingly.

And it was. Here, every shade of color was richer than what he was used to: the sky was bluer, the grass greener, and the water clearer. Color popped from even the tiniest of flowers and flutter of wings. The early morning sun added a soft glow to the already picturesque sight.

However, the town was a tad bit too rustic. A few streetlights, benches and topiaries here and there but that was it. He can't fathom how he would be restocking his supplies. Would they ship it as far as this place?Then there's his clientele, or possibly lack there of. He could count on one hand the number of buildings, which gave him an idea of the population's scarcity. At least he didn't have to pay for advertising. He'd be a walking advertisement on his own. Everybody gets excited when a newbie comes. Especially when he/she is as rare as a specimen Allen is.

The stylist groaned, unsure if he should laugh or pity himself. Perhaps moving wasn't as easy as he thought it was. He could hear his sister's voice now, asking how everything was.

"Perfect" he said, under his breath. "Just perfect."

And he covered his face with one hand, trying to hide the devil's grin.

* * *

When old man Dunhill asked if he would be interested to move towns, his first instinct was to laugh at his worn face. Why would a stylist who's highly in demand transfer to the middle of nowhere? In the first place, why should he when it meant letting go of everything he worked for? Dunhill wasn't asking him to simply leave for a different town. The old man was inviting him to _a new beginning_ – or at least that's what it sounded like.

And truth be told, Allen was bored with his lifestyle; with the numbing minute-to-minute schedule, mindless monotony and occasional drunken nights of "passion" with faceless women. Everything had coalesced into a fizz of gray, static and anesthesia. It was more suffocating than smoke. It was slow-acting poison. Hence, he agreed.

"Take me away, old man," he said. Tucking away his shears in his backpocket, he never looked back. After all, he liked that a withered old man had graciously begged for him. He liked a new challenge. It's not like he felt he lost himself at all. It was not because he wanted to _see the world in color again._

_To hear, breathe and feel again._

_To simply live again._

Certainly not for those reasons.

* * *

So, there he was, thinking this was what the harvest god had felt when he created the world and looked over creation. Or perhaps how a military general analyzes the battlefield. How a surveyor maps the area and its boundaries.

The area was dotted with a few meek houses. A wide expanse of field - the farm - lay before him, close to his own fort. Undoubtedly, the center of his map would be his own salon. His eyes grazed the blue roof. Dainty and classic, his salon fit perfectly in that quaint little town. Not exactly what he'd go for given the choice but who could complain about free lodging? Although he'd definitely add a splash of red given the choice…

Just then, a streak of pale yellow flew out of his salon. He'd have thought his eyes had been playing tricks on him if it weren't for that goddamn awful cow print hat she was wearing. As if pulled by his gaze, the chick swivels her head to look up at the man on the cliff. Allen could swear it was almost as if she was challenging him, but that couldn't be. From that angle and the sun shining behind him, she couldn't have seen him. And yet…

An old nursery rhyme suddenly surfaces into his mind, one about shooing away rain. Except this time, it goes:  
_"… Come again another day. Little chickie wants to play…."_

* * *

_The End. _

_A/N: So what ya think? Drop me a review if you liked it or have any constructive criticism to offer! (Please be nice though huhuhu)_


	2. Chapter 1: Look At Me

**Chapter 1: Look at Me**

_There are people who love to be loved. In turn, they hate to be hated. Of course there are those peculiars that love to be hated, and hate to be loved. However, I never cared much for the distinction. It all ends the same anyway:_

_You remain unforgotten._

_Even though all you want to do is forget, you can't. You'd brush your memories clean if you could - soak it in bleach- but you just can't. I know this best of all. After all, that old bastard is still as familiar as my mother and sister. _

_Ha._

_It's so ridiculous that it's not even funny anymore – to know the face of a man you rarely saw. To remember the face of the one who abandoned you._

_So yes, they say love makes you immortal; but so does hate. A grudge is as deeply etched in your mind as the name of your beloved is forever on your lips. Sometimes, even more so. Either way, you are remembered, recognized and acknowledged. Your existence isn't forfeit._

_And so your existence means something._

* * *

My fingers fumble at the buttons of my shirt, itching to take it off. I already feel the beads of sweat forming on my brow. Damn, even breathing is getting difficult. The little voice inside my head's getting harder to ignore. _Take it off. Take it off. _But I'll be damned if I undress in front of an old man.

"The cicadas are excited again this year, huh?" Dunhill says over a cooking pot, his back turned to me. _Too excited, you mean_, I think. With all their wailing, I wouldn't be surprised if I turned deaf.

"Here you go, young man. Herb soup," rasped Dunhill as he placed a steaming bowl in front of me. He took the seat across the table, looking at me expectantly. When I didn't say anything, he took a familiar-looking piece of paper from his shabby coat – as opposed to my tailored suit. "It says right here in the list you gave me. Right under 'loved gifts' – herb soup", he says, a smile in his voice.

I peered inside the scratched ceramic, getting a glimpse of swirling green before the smoke fogged up my glasses. Great.

"You're a rather dull-witted for an old man," I tell him, as I wipe my glasses with a handkerchief I keep in the inner pocket of my suit. Judging by the sudden scraping of the legs of his chair, he got quite a shock. I sigh.

"Look. Don't take it personally, old man. But, do you really think it's wise to serve something as piping hot as this in this heat?" I say, pointing out the window for emphasis.

Outside, the sun was at its peak. There is no mercy from its relentless glare with the light chasing the shadows back to its nests. The heat is so intense that the images are distorting, only a notch less than the effect of looking through water. It wasn't this hot when I first visited.

Then there are those damn cicadas…

I hadn't realized I was already lost in my thoughts until Dunhill spoke up. Unsurprisingly, he is already looking at me like he had grown a thorn in his side. "You're going to be an interesting man, won't you?"

Something tells me I won't be doing either of us a favor if I opened my mouth. Instead, I give him a casual shrug and my most winning smile before getting back to my glasses. I watch my thumb and index finger go back and forth, always opposite each other. Had it not for the cloth of my handkerchief and the thin glass between them, they would just be grinding against each other.

The silence goes on and I raise my little handiwork up to the light.

And it is spotless.

* * *

Once the afternoon heat had died down, Dunhill dragged me to see the villagers, which of course, aren't much. There were smiling Emma and old Hana; both were instantly charmed by me. No surprise. Tina apparently found me intriguing enough to like. I didn't quite understand but didn't bother to care. The opposite was true with Neil and Iroha. Let's just say they aren't part of my fanclub. At least Iroha was polite enough to be as inconspicuous as she can. They were an interesting bunch as far as small town people go. Just thinking about those people make me laugh. However, none of them was wearing a stupid hat…

As we left Iroha's doorstep, the sun was low in the horizon. Old man Dunhill looked pretty beat up, looking at the setting sun. "I guess we won't be able to pay her a visit," he said.

Once he said that, I found myself disappointed which shocked me in itself. I didn't realize I had been looking forward to it too.

"That's because you insisted on making everything such a dramatic affair. With all the whatnot about saving the best for last."

The old man gave me a steady look. I mentally lumped him in with Iroha and Neil.

"Well, she is the 'best'. She did build the roof over your head."

I fake groaned. "Don't tell me you've got a crush on her, old man. With the way you talk about her, she seems too young for you."

The old man pinched the bridge of his nose. I suppose I shouldn't have felt a bit proud that I gave him a migraine. I grinned.

"Just meet me at the crack of dawn in my house. We'll go to her together." Dunhill barked. "I imagine a girl like her wouldn't want a stranger barging into her house early in the morning."

Before I could deliver my complaint or crack a joke, Dunhill headed for his house.

And left me alone to watch the colors of the day fade into black.

* * *

I am not a morning person, much less a crack-of-dawn person. And yet, here I am, standing at someone's doorstep like a rejected lover. As if I could ever get rejected. Perish the thought!

"Good news, Rio…" The rough tones of Dunhill's voice pass through the wooden door but my mind registers just one word. _Rio._

"… You can come inside now!"

My hand twists the knob a little too fast, a little too eager. I glide in, slowing down my pace into smooth jazz. When she's directly beside me, I swivel my head back as if it was saying 'Whoops, I didn't see you there' before I face her head on.

And then I look at her. Give her my signature once-over that makes half of the girls I meet either extremely flattered or insulted but secretly turned on.

For one thing, she's not wearing that damn hat. I got to say I was kind of disappointed. It ruins the illusion of destiny and all. Although, I am sure she's the girl from the cliff. My gut as good as told me so. That and the cow prints peeking from her closet. But I guess I cannot expect her to sleep with the damn thing on and wake up with it.

At least I can see her hair unobstructed. Then again, I wish it was. 'A blanket of blond', I would like to say but it would be more accurate to say 'a tangled nest of hay'. I am not sure this girl owns a brush. Or knows what one looks like.

I avert my eyes from the mess of her mane and down to the curves of her body and lack thereof. Those overalls aren't really doing any favors for her, or me, for that matter. She looks to be an A; a B at most. Except I like my women two letters down, if you know what I mean.

"Are you Rio?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. It's almost stupid to ask by now, actually. "I'm Allen, a top stylist."

I lift my eyes to meet hers, seeing the most startling blue I've ever encountered. Except… they aren't on me.

Well, she is looking at me but it is like how one might look at a stop sign. She is looking at me, but she doesn't _see_ me.

"The old timer insisted that I come and see you, so here I am. Nice to meet you." I finish, layering my voice with honey but still, nothing. She simply nods and smiles. Either she too is slow-witted or thinking of something else altogether.

The conversation goes on, half-thought out words spilling from my mouth. _What is she thinking?_

"I've just checked out and it looks great. Perfect for me to use the full range of my skills..." I say, waiting for a reaction. Nothing.

_What is she thinking?_

"I'll see you again soon, Rio."

_What is she thinking?_

Before I noticed it, my shoulders had gone tense with my hand gripping my waist. My face is tilted towards her, sending all the wrong signals. It's too eager again. Damn it. I inhale and lean back.

"It looks like you're having a bit of a bad hair day too. Come by and I'll help sort you out." And this time I'm pretty sure she'll get angry. _Fine, hate me, _I think but she just cocks her head to the side in silent questioning.

_What is she thinking?_

I can't take it so I head towards the door without another word; because I already taste desperate words on my lips. And yet I- I tilt back my head ever so slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her looking back at me. But she isn't. She's just standing there, looking straight ahead to god knows what.

People think hate is cruel. I suppose it is.

But as my eyes leave unmet, I think indifference is, in its own way, much crueler.

* * *

_The End._

_A/N: Well this turned out to be more angsty than I intended. And I promised fluff too. But this Allen's voice is so magnetic. I enjoyed channeling my inner jerk here so much. I am actually amused by myself with the changing tenses but I have my reasons *wink wink*. I'd also like to point out the last sentence of every "cut". They aren't just clauses! They have their purpose too! Heehee._

_Leave a review, yes? Pretty please. So I would know you like angst!Allen (and slightly pervert!Allen) as much as I do. Haha._

_Btw, hi Lulu and anonymous! Since I can't personally thank you for the reviews you had left, I'll do it here. :D THANK YOU SO MUCH. Teehee~ I hope you liked this chapter! You too, LovelyNocturna! *goes back to hiding in the closet*_

_*insert disclaimer right here*_

_P.S. I am in the Winter of my first year in ANB. Would anyone want to give me a silkie egg? I'll love you forever. I can even write something for you! LOL, as if anybody would take that offer. Hahaha...ha...ha..._


	3. Chapter 2: Through the Closed Window

_Hi guys! It's been a struggle to stick my ideas together. Still struggling, actually. There's a future chapter that I really want to write (very badly!) now but of course I have to wait. So, while I think up what happens between this and that, here's a short Allen-centric chapter for you! Hope you like it!_

* * *

**CHAPTER 2: Through the Closed Window**

'_Thud, thud, thud_'– it goes. I hear it even before I see her. It has become a warning of sorts to me.

_There she goes again._

'_Thud, thud, thud_': The sound of her feet beating against the gravel, like the rhythmic beating of the drums.

It's always the same. Everyday she comes running into town like a whirlwind; unmindful of the distraction she creates. By standing by my window on the second floor, I have clear but fleeting shot of the little whirlwind exiting her farm.

With the browning of leaves was the appearance of new buildings and new people, all through her efforts. She's met with them too. I've seen her entering their houses, a gift in hand. They were simple gifts; things she foraged from the forest like mushrooms and freshly picked herbs. I never thought anyone would be happy from them but the recipients always are judging by the look on their faces. They would smile at her and she'd return it with her own before she ran off. Getting herself dirty for the sake of people she's never met, that fool.

And yet, she has never dropped in my salon, which explains that nest they call hair. Only through this window do I get a clear shot of her however fleeting it might be.

In the infinity between seconds, I see her tangled locks billowing behind her. My hands are itching to comb through the bland strands. It's a struggle to keep them at bay. Still further between those infinities is a glimpse of her face, as innocent as a kid's. A stubborn smile is always on her lips. Finally, her eyes – as unfathomable as the sky. A blue that always looked nowhere but forward and never in my direction.

Then she's gone like a dream – like a dream I can only catch the tail-end of.

I run my hands through my hair. A small part of me questions whether I've turned into a devilishly handsome stalker.

_Focus, Allen. Focus on the work at hand, _I think as I walk back to my table. A bowl of herb soup is on top of the table. I take a sip before moving it on top of the cabinet. Ever since I arrived, they have been leaving me a bowl of it everyday on the counter downstairs. As if it would make me stay. Honestly, that old man. At the very least, he's getting better at cooking.

After moving the soup, all that's left on the table is a blank sheet of paper. Sitting down, I snatch a pencil from my pocket and wait for inspiration to hit.

To a man like me, it's always been easy to create new hairstyles. All it takes is genius - which I have in abundance – and a clear mind. And yet, my hand is unmoving on top of the paper. I hear the ticking of the clock.

_Tick tock._

_Tick Tock._

_TICK TOCK._

The page remains unblemished. By now, I should at least be seeing an image but damn it, all I see is the faraway blue of her eyes.

I give my head a shake, as if that would dispel all unnecessary thoughts. Unnecessary frustrations. A woman does not vex me; has never vexed me. It is I who perplex them not vice-versa. That has always been the natural order of things.

_Until now, _says a small voice in my head.

The first time I saw her, my guts told me she was going to be a challenge. I had looked forward to it too: Her exasperated banter and below the belt comments; her clenched teeth and flushed cheeks; her eyes shining with unshed tears. That was the game. That was _my_ game.

The voice is growing louder now: _But the ball isn't in your court anymore._

I put down the pencil in my hand just on time. It had been in danger of snapping in two. But still, the paper is left blank. I take deep breaths, knowing I was going nowhere.

_Fine, _I think, my trademark grin tugging at my lips. _I'll just have to steal the ball back._

Then, with the pencil back in my hand, a plan starts to form in my mind. All the while my fingers move to fill in the spaces.

* * *

Rod entered the salon, not bothering to knock. He was half-expecting his childhood friend to chastise him about it. However, he found the room empty. He circled the counter, heading upstairs guessing the redhead would be there. This room too was empty, to no avail.

"Man, and I was excited to tell him I would be moving in too", said Rod to no one in particular. Just as he took a step down back the stairs, a piece of crumpled paper caught his eyes. Curious thing he was, he walked back and ironed it flat on the table. He figured Allen wouldn't mind.

Ever since they were children, Allen had a certain knack with his hands. Most of Rod's childhood had been spent admiring Allen's talents. From carpentry to sewing, the redhead could do them all flawlessly. It didn't help that his mother and sister were utterly useless with those things.

"But I guess it wasn't for nothing" Rod's fingers traced the air above lines of the sketch, not wanting to smudge it. After all, his current profession had stemmed from there. And also…

The drawing was beautiful. Allen had only used a pencil and yet he was able to produce a variety of shades, of depths. A hard hand for the darker shade and delicate strokes for the light tints. It was beautiful, but it also looked very distant even on paper.

Yes, the eyes did.

* * *

_The End._

_A/N: So that's the end of another chapter! You can tell I am getting close to the fluff, amarite? But I've honestly grown so attached to angst!Allen. Plus, fluff and angst go so well together! (sings) Where shall I go from here~~~ (/singing)_

_If you like this story, please don't forget to check the follow box. :D And if you want to make this little writer happy, a review would be equivalent to giving me a box of happiness. Even if they are constructive criticism! _

_For the record, Allen did only draw a pair of eyes._

_To An – (In response to your review on Chapter 1) Thank you! It makes me immensely happy to hear that __ I'm fanning myself just thinking of Allen! And I don't know about the others, but I am totally willing to coerce you to join the Allen x Rio ship. _

_P.S. If you have any suggestions or requests, you are welcome to tell me. Although it's not a guarantee I'll be able to work on it :D_


	4. Chapter 3: Flirting with the Wind

_A/N: This fic is rated T for a reason.__*blushes* Beware of suggestive things and language (Though I suppose it's too late to say that now). That is all._

* * *

**Chapter 3: Flirting with the Wind**

Autumn is cold and vivid and nostalgic all at once.

I hate it.

The world is both alive and dying during autumn. It is lustrous in its shades of red and yellow and brown. Every sight and every step is marked with withered leaves, making it impossible to ignore. Even the river is forced to carry away the burden of fallen leaves. In any other season, this place would have been a scenic dating spot. As it is though, it is only sad. Which is why, _we _won't be staying here.

I check the time on my wristwatch. It's a few minutes shy from one o' clock. She should be here any minute now. Ha! The time I spent by that window had not been in vain after all.

I lean against the fallen trunk, my fingers playing with the cold metal band strung around my neck. I tilt my head towards the sky, praying the geese overhead – obnoxious little beasts - won't drop a surprise on me. I watch them go, their honking grating my ears as they bid their farewell. I drink in the air of Fall as I do. It is crisp, with the faint smell of smoke, nutmeg and the promise of winter.

A familiar _'thud, thud, thud'_ echoes from far away, jarring me out of my reverie.

_Ah, it's finally show time, _I think, because that's what it is – a big show. It's been a long time since I _had to_ _try _to seduce a woman. I am pretty confident I have no need to brush off my skills in that area though.

Seduction is a game. It is an art. It is strategy. It's about reading your opponent. It has its own theories, principles and rules and I've mastered all of them, right down the trail left by that woman's nails on my back. Although today's plan is just a simple date…

'_Thud, thud, thud'._

I push myself up to a standing position, the ring forgotten as it falls below my collarbone. I dust off my suit and trousers, avoiding the pair of shears that hangs around one thigh. A stylist job is never done, after all. With that said, I take a quick glance at my reflection in the water. I brush my bangs to the side and throw in a smile for a good measure. _Impeccable, as always. _

Right on cue, she bursts out into the field like a dandelion. It looks like Autumn doesn't get to her much.

I saunter towards her in a deliberate pace. It's slow enough to let her appreciate the magnificence (that is I) but fast enough to suggest I have a purpose; that that purpose was her. As predicted, she comes to a complete stop, eyes wide in surprise and partly in question. Not expected: the lovely flush on her cheeks that makes words die in my mouth.

"Oh, Rio", I exhale.

She's panting hard, winded from the all that running. Her knotted hair bounces on her shoulders as she tries to catch her breath. Her arguably noticeable chest heaves as well. And yet, despite her labored breaths, she manages to return my greeting with a smile. _Her _smile – the one she freely gives to anyone and everyone. It's the smile that's brimming with foolish naivety.

Damn, I just bit my tongue.

_Remember the game plan._ With measured steps, I cut the distance between us. Her blue eyes widen even more. The way her eyebrows raised in question is almost comical.

"You want to know what I'm doing?" I ask without preamble. "Isn't it obvious? I'm taking a break."

She blinks, once. Twice. And I wonder if she's doing it on purpose. _  
_

"You're lucky, actually, running into me now. Really lucky!" As if I can't emphasize how fortunate she is enough. The first step: To create an illusion of a chance encounter, that's what I need. Women are too susceptible with any notion of fate and destiny.

I read the script in my head, mindful to sound the perfect dose of casual. "I was just starting to feel thirsty, so I was going to get some tea. You don't have anything to do, right? I'm feeling pretty good today, I'll take you along with me if you'd like."

_Go for spontaneity. Don't give her a chance to say no._

"Come on."

_Take the lead. Dominate._

I walk pass her and ignore the spark of static when my shoulders brushes hers. _All part of the plan_. When I don't hear her tailing behind me, I swivel my head back to call out to her. She's standing there, her head inclined toward me. And for what feels like the first time, her eyes are resting on me. One step away from actually _seeing_ me.

"Hey, what's wrong? Come along, get a move on." I move forward, slow at first, to estimate her docility. After a few uncertain seconds, I hear her footsteps behind me, finally. I lengthen my stride, growing more confident. She's running to keep up now. I have to press a hand to my mouth to swallow the laughter that's bubbling inside.

_She's finally chasing after me._

* * *

"What's up?" I ask. She looks at me, or rather, at the ring against my collar, then back at the food again. It's always a question in her eyes.

I lean into the palm of my hand to make sure our eyes are level with hers. My shoulders too are aligned with her slim ones. Body language speaks volumes, even if it is choreographed with eye contact being key to the strategy. If only she would meet my gaze, that is.

I splay out my hand to the spread of cakes and tea before us. "It's my treat, so you don't have to hold back!"

Odd. I thought food would get her. At the very least, it should insinuate a sense of security and stability on my part. Both of which are desirable in the opposite sex. She should be glad to eat, shouldn't she? It's food after all. She needs the energy to work. This close to her, I can see the strain on her body that farm work has: on her uneven skin tone; on the slight dip under her eyes; especially on her hair, under that ridiculous hat.

Probably feeling my stare, she takes it off and places it on top of the chair next to her. However, I do notice some hesitance in her, with the way her hands linger on the damn thing. She hastily places her hands on her lap, head slightly bowed. Her fringe is uneven and immediately, my hands are on the scissors at my thigh. Finally, she raises her eyes to mine and I am struck with the shyness – or is it wariness? - they hold.

Even I am surprised with the gentleness that's overcome my voice when I say, "Eat, come on."

Her lips quirk up a fraction, teasing me with a smile that is equally shy. I wasn't aware of how quiet we had been until I had noticed every hitch in her breath. It is a silence whose touch was as light as a feather and as fleeting as the wind. In this corner of the restaurant, on such a busy hour, the rest of the world fell away.

But, its calm left the moment it came, crashing a foreign desire within me in its wake. A simple one, but pressing one - The sound of her voice, that is all.

All this time, I've only been hearing my voice. I realize I've never even heard her voice before. My own voice had always been enough. But now, I want to hear her voice. I want to _know_ Rio's voice.

Again, as if reading my thoughts, her mouth opens a fraction. Slowly - to the point of sensuality. I find myself leaning in more and more. Instinct is taking over though it shouldn't be. Before I can reign myself in, my ears hang unto a sound.

"Thank you so much."

I blink once or twice, reminiscent of how she did earlier, in a mix of bewilderment and wonder. How is it possible that such a small voice could be so clear and certain?

"I invited you here." I cough into a fisted hand. "There's no need to thank me."

_Back to the game plan. Women love chivalry. _"Having a woman pay for food or drink while she is eating with me goes against everything I stand for."

She nods, looking like it is more for my sake than hers; strangely discomforting. Then her head bobs up. Her eyes crinkle; her lips red from where she unconsciously bit it. And though no sound escapes her lips, she speaks to me by the expression of her face. 'Kind' she says in my mind, and I almost laugh.

"You think that makes me kind?" I snort. "No, I'm just doing what anyone would do!"

I have no illusions of being kind and I have never been apologetic for it. Despite that, she gives me a knowing look; the kind you'd give to a kid who insists on Santa Claus.

"Come on, let's eat." I bark, harsher than I intended. But she doesn't look perturbed at all and happily digs into her piece of cake.

* * *

"Phew, that was great!" I groan inwardly. Well that's the overstatement of the year. Conversation pretty much died after we took one bite. I was starting to think she'd been on a date with the cheesecake instead of me.

I rush my words, giving her no time to contradict me. "I'd better get going, anyway. We part ways here."

_It's better this way,_ I tell myself, _so I can pick up the remains of my scheming plot. Be brief, I need to be brief. That is the secret - to leave something to be desired._

She gives a nervous laugh while her hands grip the edges of the hat now back on her head. Both her shoulders and feet are pointing towards the door. As much as I'd like to think she's just anxious, she isn't. Her body language says she's just itching to go out.

_Where did I go wrong? _

If that's what she wants, then fine. I compose myself and unhinge my jaw that's starting to grind my teeth to dust.

I place a hand on my hips to push myself up. At least my image, I will hold onto until the very end.

"It looks like you had a good time." I say dismissively. I make a move to leave, before she does so she does not make me like an idiot left hanging.

_This is dumb. Just when I finally thought I had her, I lose her. Dumb. Stupid. Pathetic. It looks like I'm going back to that window._

I stop in my tracks, a door away from the detestable Autumn. As if pulled by a thread, I turn back to her.

"I'll invite you out again sometime." I tell her, too eagerly and too forcefully. "Look forward to it!"

I leave, bizarrely satisfied by the sound of the closing door.

* * *

_Well that was a bust._

The cold autumn air rushes to my side seemingly sympathetic. Another reason to hate Fall. I walk back to the salon in sporadic steps. It mirrors perfectly my inner turmoil, which only infuriates me even more. I don't get that woman at all. One minute she's as easy to read as an open book and the next she's as clear as an abstract painting. I'm beginning to think she may not be right in the head because I cannot be brushed aside that easily.

What a game this ended up to be. And yet, in the end, it feels like I'm the one who got played.

I bang open the salon door. My daily delivery of herb soup greets me on top of the counter. _Heh, at least Dunhill's good for something. _

It's already gone cold against my colder fingertips. It's no wine too, nevertheless, I glug it down unceremoniously. Straight from the bowl.

Let the bitterness of lavender blaze a path down my throat.

_The End._

* * *

_A/N: First the record, I do not approve of Allen's sexist views at all. However, that's how Allen thinks in my mind so… yeah. I'm trying to take things slow here although I've been fangirling over the fluff I've spiced this chapter with. I hope he doesn't sound too OOC. I'm so excited to show you guys the next chapters! But first, I have to write them down. Woohoo. _

_Yes, this is the Black Heart event for Allen. All dialogue here is taken straight from the game. I'm not sure if I should do the next heart event. What do you think? Please review!_

_For more updates or "teasers" of incoming chapters, you can go look into my tumblr: discombobulatedballadry dot tumblr dot com. You can also see me fangirling over other fandoms there. Heehee. Also, I am now open for beta-ing! Check my beta profile :D_

_To Marie: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it, especially angsty Allen! I hope you liked this chapter too! _


	5. Chapter 4: Uncomplicated

_A/N: This is chapter is a tribute to the Allen and Rod friendship. _

_"Silence makes the real conversations between friends. Not the saying, but the never needing to say that counts." ― Margaret Lee Runbeck__  
_

**Chapter 4: Uncomplicated**

_- A dog and its master_ -

When they were younger, people called Allen and Rod a matched set, because neither would be seen without the other. With the redhead in the lead, they'd go parading all over the town playing pretend. Whenever Allen would decide to play superhero, Rod would most certainly be the damsel in distress. Playing doctor? Enter Rod, the bedridden patient. Playing house? Cue Rod in a mommy dress.

And what of Superman, doctor and devoted father? All Allen, without a question.

Which is why Rod's favorite game had always been 'airplanes' because for once, he wouldn't be lying down the whole time or in a dress or both. While Rod was the pilot, Allen would be the guy barking orders, safe in the control tower. It was more his style anyway, explained Allen. Rod had loved being pilot so much that he kept his goggles atop his head even when Allen had grown tired of it and moved onto another game.

_- Pen and paper -_

When Allen had learned about the mechanics of Morse code, it sparked a fascination with signals and symbols within him. He had forced Rod to learn it but to no avail. Rod – only seven at the time – could not memorize its alphabet, mixing a dash for a period. And Allen, with the many times he called Rod a 'block head', inadvertently just ended up making Rod cry. Hence, Allen petulantly came up with a compromise involving one red flag.

_- Bacon and eggs -_

A red flag, Allen had explained, is a summoning. Should Allen hang the red flag down his window, Rod was to come over his house; even when the sky had grown dark and people were deep in slumber. Though Rod argued he wouldn't be able to see the flag if it was dark, Allen told him he'd develop night vision soon enough anyway.

So every night, Rod would look at the window next door. He'd spend ten minutes – an eternity for a child – just squinting at it, waiting for his night vision to kick in. Sooner or later, he'd fall asleep by the open window that earned him a scolding from his mama the next morning.

_- Light and starlight -_

The red flag had made frequent appearances by the summer they turned ten. It happened often during the night of screams and curses in the house next door. Allen had kindly left his lampshade on beside the flag, making it visible even without superpowers.

Now that Rod was taller and more agile, climbing down the pipeline was not as bruising as it once was. He'd brag about it after as he squatted on Allen's windowsill. In turn, Allen would roll his eyes and toss him the first-aid kit before sitting down on the carpet.

After treating any wound, Rod would take his seat beside Allen without a word. Instantly, Allen would begin telling stories not of their time and not of their world. Some of them were ones Rod had heard before, over and over again. The others stories were drawn straight from Allen's imagination; Rod's favorites.

The night air was full of Allen's voice, continuing until the early hours of morning. Miraculously, Allen's voice never broke, never shook and never waivered. Eventually, it would lull Rod to sleep; leaving Allen to turn to the stars for company.

Rod's mom had begrudgingly gotten used to her son's disappearances over the years. When day broke and Rod was not in his bed, his mom would march right up to Allen's room. She'd find Allen awake, beside his window, staring at her with tired eyes. There were no words for this broken little boy. She'd pick up snoring Rod on her shoulders and lead her half-asleep son through the door. With a backward glance, she'd take her leave with a sad smile and walk away.

Allen had decided he disliked this woman.

_- Hello and goodbye -_

The first time Rod had seen the ring around Allen's neck was the day his fatherless family moved out of town.

The ring was too thick to be a woman's and too big for Allen's pianist fingers. In spite of that, the ring looked perfect dangling below his collars, swinging and bumping into his chest – right above his heart.

_- A dog and its master -_

A dog and its master, that's what the two of them were. There were no words more accurate than that. How great it is then for the dog who can rummage around on its own! How liberating it is for the dog who can choose another master if it so wishes to!

And.

How pitiful is the master who is without his only friend!

* * *

_The End._

_A/N: As much as I love writing about the progress of Allen and Rio's relationship, I was super excited to explore the dynamics between Rod and Allen. On the surface, some may perceive their friendship as dysfunctional so it was such a delight coming up with reasons as to why it works. _

_Now I know that Rod seemed abused in this fic, and to some degree he is but! It makes me love Rod all the more, if that makes sense. Allen, on the other hand, his 'kindness' may not be kindness at all for some but that's how I feel he is so…_

_Reviews are always received giddily. So, if you would be so kind to leave one I'd be grateful!_

_P.S. Do you think I should post this outside The Narcissist's Unmaking? This chapter has its uses for the incoming chapters of TNU (which is why it's here)but I also think it can stand alone. Thoughts?_

_To Marie: Uwah! I'm so happy you like the last chapter. Thank you! I've always thought that the usual girl wouldn't fit Allen so having Rio unusual felt perfect for me._


	6. Chapter 5: What is Unspoken

**Chapter 5: What is Unspoken**

"Rod, stop it. You might seriously annoy me to death _this time_."

He's been giving me his version of a smug look for ten minutes now. I thought giving him the silent treatment would be enough of a hint to drop it but it seems I grossly underestimated his blockhead tendencies.

"Be a good boy and eat your pasta, Rod." I tell him from across the table but his grin just grows wider. I am resisting the urge to call his borderline 'rape face'.

I shoot him an exasperated look. "If you're going to come barging in uninvited during lunch, the least you could do is eat up my cooking before it grows cold."

"But you're actually in… love." In his excitement, he chokes out the last word. Blockhead. He looks genuinely happy right until I point my fork to his face.

"I don't do love, remember?"

He raises his hands in mock surrender, laughing as he did so. "Okay, maybe not 'love'. At the very least, you're infatuated with her. That's never happened before!"

"And still hasn't." I quip.

"Come on," he insists. "You wouldn't be as frustrated if it weren't the case."

"And your point of reference is?"

"Experience!" He shoots up from his seat all dramatically. "Mine, that is, but we're not talking about that now so don't even think of changing the subject!"

"Ah, you saw right through me." I say deadpan. "Now sit down and eat your pasta."

Thank the Goddess he relents and sits back down quietly. Just when I think he's calmed down, he chomps through the noodles. In between bites, he goes: "I really wish…you didn't… make this harder for me…. I mean, at least… you could tell me her name!"

I dab my mouth with a napkin. "That's what you get when you are quick to assume things. All I said was I am at my wit's end with this girl… Besides, her name is irrelevant."

"Precisely because she has you cornered that I need to know her. She must be amazing to be able to shake you." He bangs his hands on the table, clanging the silverware.

"Oh, naïve, simple-minded little Rod. Sorry to dash your fantasies but this isn't something as pathetic as love or infatuation. She doesn't even have any sex appeal! This is simply a matter of pride. Once the game is over, she'll just be a memory. Like always."

"And what do you get when this game ends?", he asks – so eerily calm.

I hesitate, I don't know why but I do. My mind draws a blank.

He looks me right in the eye. "What happens to you?"

This isn't going anywhere anyway. Thus, with a note of finality, I say: 'Blockhead'.

I can sense he isn't ready to give up. Just as he opens his mouth to rebut me, a flash of light paints the whole world white in a fraction of a second: Lighting, followed by deafening thunder. Rod's attention swings to the window now being mauled by raindrops. "Since when did it start raining?"

I stand up and gather our emptied plates, glad for the distraction.

I carry the plates to the sink and call over my shoulder to him. "Go on home, Rod. Your dog is afraid of thunder, isn't she?"

He turns his head back at me with his eyes wide open. A smile creeps along his mouth. "You remember Elizabeth?"

Reluctantly, I return his smile. "Elizabeth who?"

_- "If there's a prize for rotten judgement, I guess I've already won that. No man is worth the aggravation." – I Won't Say I'm In Love, Hercules (Disney) -_

With the rain going on, the temperature and business has gone down dramatically. It had already been cool but the rain had made the autumn climate colder; not to mention looking more dreary. A nice hot bowl of soup would be nice right about _now._

Where's Dunhill when you need him?

Thinking about it now, it's such a sly move from an old man. I just know he's trying to tame me with that soup of his. I honestly thought I'd be sick of that stuff by now though. Even I don't think that it isn't healthy anymore, eating eat everyday. And yet, despite that, I've have always been compelled to finish it until the last drop. I guess it helps that he changes the herbs he uses for each bowl. Where does he even get the herbs that are out of season anyway?

My mouth starts to water at the thought. I look down the window with foolish hopes to see him hunched over a bowl. But even I know only an idiot would walk in the storm.

Suddenly, I feel stupid for staying here by the counter. I might as well head back upstairs. However, just as I was at the first step, I hear the door creak open. I turn, half-expecting a thief and half-expecting Dunhill but instead, I see her.

Rio stands by the doorway looking as surprised as I feel. She's soaked with no umbrella in sight. Even if hadn't seen her enter, I could tell she ran through the storm by the way her hair sticks to her face and her overalls clings to her petite body.

_No sex appeal, huh?_

I cough into my hands and only then do I notice the bowl cradled in her arms. All of a sudden, everything clicks in. That's where he gets his herbs! She must be growing them.

I realize we had been just standing there, gawking at each other. I should at least invite her in. I should, shouldn't I–

"Here" she mumbles, offering me the bowl with her arms outstretched. "I'm sorry I was late."

For some reason, this amuses me. I cover my face with one hand, unmindful of my glasses in the way. "You really shouldn't let the old man make you run his errands."

Between my fingers, I see her cock her head to the side. So bird-like.

"Errands?" she repeats, her voice shaking.

Immediately, I rush towards the towel cabinet. I suppose it's another good reason to be a stylist: having enough spare towels to offer. I throw her one, which she clumsily catches. She buries her face in the towel for a minute before wiping herself down – her arms, her neck, below her ears. The whole thing strangely feels obscene so I turn away. When did it become so hot in here?

She walks towards me and I resist the urge to flinch at her approach. This woman is seriously unnerving me. She hands me back the towel, already folded. With a quick bow, she turns towards the door. Don't tell me she's planning to go back in the rain? What the heck was that show of drying herself? She isn't –

But she does, she turns the knob looking she has every bit the intention of racing in that downpour _again_.

"Wait!" I lost my cool and practically yell. "Are you that stupid? I –"

I what? Won't let her get sick? Won't let her go?

"I… let me thank you for the soup." I finally say and without thinking any further, grab her arm and sit her on a chair.

_- And maybe love is the reason why for the first time ever we're seeing it I2I." – I2I, A Goofy Movie -_

I slide my comb through her hair, or rather, try to. The comb has gotten stuck midway through the mess. Goddess, I can't even get it out. She keeps squirming in her seat, which doesn't help my job at all.

"Don't move." I tell her sternly just as she turns to the sound of my voice.

"Don't. Move." I repeat. Reflex takes over as my hands trap her face and keep it forward. This is business and yet, when I look in the mirror, I can't help but feel blindsided. My fingers spread against her pale cheeks, my chin almost buried in her hair. This is the closeness only a stylist and a customer have; the only nearness they can have.

I look down at her eyes reflected in the mirror to find them looking into mine. Yes, this is the only intimacy we can have.

I look down and lightly finger-comb the stray strands behind her ears. I sense a shift in the air just as she pulls her head back suddenly, barring the sensual curve of her neck. Her eyes looking at between my eyes while her lips keep slightly parted.

My fingers twitch at my side. "Didn't I tell you not to move?"

"But the comb is heavy." She averts her eyes, bites her lips.

Damn. Can't believe I left it hanging there. "Right. I was hoping gravity would do the work for me."

She turns her head back toward the mirror and I feel like I can breathe again. "But you know, gravity is the weakest force in the universe. If that brush were metal, using a magnet would be better."

Stupefied, I say: "Well, it's a comb not a brush."

She laughs, tingling and sweet, telling me she never knew the difference. And I reply by saying how could she bring up physics and not know what a comb and a brush are. She, in turn, says her hair speaks for her as to why she doesn't.

"Obviously." I sigh and, again, she laughs like I didn't just insult her.

I eye the brush– er, comb, still hanging by the strands of her hair. "I guess I'd have to use the new conditioner I ordered. Come, please."

Her eyes widen just a fraction. "What? Just because it's new I can't guarantee it's strong enough to untangle that nest of yours."

"Then, _please._"

Now it's my turn to look at her questioningly. Is it that surprising for me to say please?

I ponder on this as I lead her towards the washing station, by the hand this time. She lays her hands on top of mine - palm-to-palm and finger-to-finger. How tiny women's hands are however hers are presumably more calloused than the others. More calloused than mine even.

The rest of the ordeal is spent quietly. I listen to the silence between us. This too, the silence that is awkward, comforting, and as warm as hands clasped together turns out to be another blessed intimacy.

Finally, when the rain has stopped falling and the brush has been freed, the time for unveiling comes. I motion her to twirl with my finger, which she does ever so uncertainly.

I'm a genius.

With all my annoyances about her, I still can only half-believe that I barely touched its style. I've cut her fringe straight, trimmed the edges to get right of the split-ends and combed it until nothing blocked the smooth glide of it. Under the fluorescent, her hair shines like a river of dimmed sunlight.

She finishes her spin looking slightly disoriented. Honestly, I didn't tell her to close her eyes while she did so. I applaud anyway, impressed with _myself_.

Her eyes open at the sound and instantly land on me. No, _boring _into mine. I don't know what she sees, probably her own reflection if she was near enough. But for me, she looks… not cute, not pretty but iridescent.

"Beautiful, princess."

She touches her hair, maybe thinking I was referring to it. Which I was. Of course.

"I should go," she says after.

And I pick that time to be real smooth and say 'yeah'.

She twists the knob for the second time today. For a moment, I am taken back to the first time I met her only this time she turns back to me. The effect is not lost on me.

"It was nice to meet you, Allen."

_The End._

_A/N: Fuwa fuwa time which is a K-on! song that is translated in English as 'Fluffy Time' that I feel is what this (longest yet) chapter was. Hope the first part kind of evened out though if you're not into fluff. But more than that, I hope it gave a deeper insight on what Allen's character is. Or at least, in my head canon _

_And yes, I used Disney song lyrics for line breaks because I am a Disney girl at heart._

_Review please!_

_To Marie: Thank you for your input! I already uploaded chapter four as a separate story with a bonus drabble. It's titled "Uncanny". I hope you will like it to if you read it :D_


	7. Chapter 6: In More Ways Than One

**Chapter 6: In More Ways Than One**

_His sister's voice becomes static in the background – a force of habit – as Allen examines the crystal in the palm of his hand. It had fallen out of an old chandelier in their living room and rolled under the sofa. It would have stayed there forever had it not glinted (or winked, as Allen liked to think) and momentarily blinded him._

_The stylist-in-training raises it above him, beyond his shadow, where the sun's rays can reach. Light enters as one and spontaneously leaves in a dazzling array of colors. He twists and turns it between his fingers, watching as the light blinked, nay winked. _

"_Allen, are you listening?" his sister huffs. She towers above his seated form, blocking the light. "It isn't often that I grace you with a story of my love life."_

_But it is, he thinks, too often. How many times has he heard destiny, fate and soul mate escape his glamoured sister's mouth? The same number of times she came home, tear-stained and shattered. She fell and then lies broken. He has grown tired of it. Tired of hearing her ramble about great love, of hearing her cry until all she has are hiccups and sighs, of listening to himself as he asks her why. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?_

_Because love is a gem and I'm smart to keep valuables within reach, she'd say with her head held high, always. It isn't smart at all, he thinks. Because when it's stolen from you, you'll be left emptier than you were before._

_But this, he doesn't tell her because she's been enchanted – bewitched by an emotion she doesn't understand. What's worse is that surrender is her free choice. It's pointless to argue with someone who has lost reason._

_So he breaks away from her shadow, he stands up. Love is a gem, even when she doesn't say it, her words ring inside Allen's head. He closes his fingers around the crystal in his hand. With his palm facing down - directly above the trash bin - he unfurls his fingers, one by one._

"_Allen!" His sister shrieks._

_But it's too late. The crystal has fallen and shattered into pieces._

* * *

Throughout the years, I've seen countless women fall asleep at my side. They've always looked the same: a hand under the pillow, a hand on top of it and a ridiculously satisfied expression on their faces. They lie there – carelessly vulnerable – and every time, an alarm goes off in my head. It's that warning that drives me to peck a kiss on their soft cheeks, turn off the lights and close the door. Walk away, on the lonely moonlit street.

I stare down at Rio now, aware of the unsteady rise and fall of her chest under the covers. My first thought is this: She's different from those girls. Curled up against herself and loosely cocooned in her blanket, it's as if she knows the world isn't safe even in her dreams. But then I look at her face that is still so young and still so naïve with the ever-present upward tilt of her mouth's corners despite the circumstances. Across her skin is varying tones of flesh from what I presume to be working in the field. Beneath her closed lids, her eyes are restless still in sleep. Without opening her eyes, I can imagine – no, _sense_, the unmistakable blue. Even in my memory, it is vivid and electrifying. It is as deep as the sea and unfathomable as the sky. _The sky and the sea combined._

But guilt gnaws on me when my gaze catches her flushed cheeks and the thin layer of sweat on her forehead. Her fringe sticks to her heated skin while stray strands find a way to her tender lips, swaying with every labored breath. I thoughtlessly brush it behind her ears, trailing the tips of my fingers on the way. When her eyelids start to contract, I know she is a second away from consciousness. Leaning into her ear, I whisper what I've been itching to say.

"Stuuupid."

She stirs under the worn sheets, rolling onto her back. I watch as her eyes flutter open like butterfly wings – so unbelievably hypnotic. I stand back and wait wordlessly for her to get her bearing. When her eyes are wide open, it immediately latches onto me.

"Allen," she coughs, her voice raw and hoarse from disuse. The sound of it is dangerous, coaxing desires.

She smiles up at me, lazily, and offers me a feeble 'good morning'. I say nothing in response, still waiting for the full weight of the situation to befall on her. I can tell the exact moment when it does, when she bolts right up. The thin blanket falls off her, leaving her uncharacteristically surprised. Despite pretenses, I still have it in me to muster a smile. So she does have a sense of self-preservation after all!

"Before you start panicking," I begin and am about to gesture at her fully clothed form when she runs to the window. The mid-morning sun hides behind cotton clouds, making the landscape gloomier. Snow languidly falls. Trees stand humbly with few of their green ornaments while the rest of the land is buried under a layer of white. With the world falling silent, it isn't hard to imagine we're the last two people on earth.

Her back is to me as she examines the view. For a moment, she seems as if she's struck with wonderment. Has she never seen snow where she's from? Then she quickly turns to me, anxiety coloring her expression. And again, I try to explain but she cuts me off with a question: What time is it?

"What?" I ask, indignantly, more for her sake than mine. "A man is inside your house and you ask what time it is?"

"My crops! My animals!" She doesn't seem to have heard me at all as she shuffles clumsily towards the door. Suddenly, I am angry and bizarrely wounded.

"Hold your horses, princess." I grab her arm (which is surprisingly muscled thin as she is) as she passes by me.

She jerks her away abruptly. Her clouded eyes dance around me. "Why are you so hot?"

"I'm amazed you only noticed my charms now-"

She waves me away impatiently. "More importantly, why are there two of you?"

"Goddess, you're worse than I thought." I sigh.

"What?" I roll my eyes; she's really slow on the uptake… or maybe not. Even now, she's slowly inching her way to the door as if I was stupid enough not to notice.

"Rio, you're sick." I tell her (in my most degrading tone) before hefting her over my shoulder and bringing her back to bed.

* * *

After I insisted she drank her medicine, I finally get to tell her my long-winded explanation. That I thought the town was bizarrely peaceful and surely something was amiss. That, because I was off today and there wasn't anything to see in this town, I went to her farm only to find her dog pawing at her door. That when I knocked no one answer, I thought that she could have been died over night, so I just barged in. Locks don't exist in this town, apparently. Then, as it turned out, my worries weren't as farfetched as I thought.

"So, this is what you get when you run across the town while a storm rages on." I conclude. She nods absentmindedly, her eyes fixated on the door.

"Thank you." She says without preamble. She gives me a timid smile then quickly looks down at the cup of tea I brewed for her. Her thumb traces the rim of the cup and every now and then, her eyes jump back to door and I.

She opens her mouth but I cut her down with a resounding no. "No, princess. You can't leave this house."

"Princess?" she repeats. "But-"

"No." It feels good to be the one cutting her off.

She's trying hard not to pout, which actually just makes her look pettier and a tad bit cuter. "If I don't take care of them, they'll get stressed. Eventually, they'll get sick."

"But right now, you're the one who's down with the fever, princess."

She dips her head to the side. "It's not as if I hadn't gone out sick before."

Something in her voice feels oddly familiar. That and the petulant face she's making chips at my buried conscience.

"Fine, you win, princess." She springs out of bed instantaneously and I have to push her back down. "That doesn't mean I am letting you go out. You'll stay right here and that's final."

"So what exactly do I win then?"

When I'm sure she's settled down, I take my hands off her shoulders. "A privilege."

"Just for today, I'll lend you my hand. Be grateful. I'll do your chores for you but in exchange, you have to promise you won't take a step out of this house. Got that?"

"That's too much! I can't ask that of you."

"It's alright. It's partly my fault anyway. I should have thought to lend you some clothes in the first place." Despite saying that, I did think about it but just the thought of her wearing my clothes was… dangerous.

She thinks about it for a moment. Her mind is racing with the possibility. "Do you even know how to take care of livestock and poultry?"

"Don't underestimate me, princess. There's nothing I can't do."

She hands me her rucksack weighing a ton, she gives me instructions on how to brush the animals and milk the cows.

"Fortunately, I've scheduled not to water the crops today, the barns and coops have been cleaned yesterday and all the wool have been sheared two days before. All that's left are the produce and the daily needs of the animals." She beams up at me.

She walks me to the door. "If you need any help, don't hesitate to call me."

As if I would need help. It's just farming. How hard can it be?

* * *

A hundred chicken pecks and a chewed-out suit later, I am leaning against her door. It seems all my energy has been sucked out of me. It's been a while since I heard my stomach grumble so loudly. Heck, I don't even remember if it grumbled loudly at all before this.

Of course, I can't say that to her. I'd die a thousand times before I admit it. So I take a moment to pull myself together. How does she go through that every damn day? To think, she even has time to go out to forage and talk to people. And she has all that damn watering to do! Where does she get that energy?

I lean my head on the wall and slump through the ground. The bone-chilling cold does nothing for my tired bones but I melt into it anyway. I might have fallen asleep right there and then if it wasn't for the familiar smell of…

I burst inside her house and take in the atmosphere. It's a lot cleaner than it was before. Her bed is fixed with no creases in sight. All the items in her storage have been organized as I peek at the open chest. The table too is set with two plates. Rio stands over a pot cooking on the stove.

"All done?" she asks, a ladle in her hands. I notice too that she put her hair in a ponytail. A haphazard ponytail, but a ponytail nonetheless. She almost looks like a housewife…

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't do any work?" I ask a bit bewildered.

She beams at me. "No, we agreed I won't get out of the house and I haven't."

I take a sit at the diner table. Genovese pasta greets me there and I'd be ecstatic if I wasn't too busy refusing the urge to fall onto the table. I suppose I should scold her but I don't have any energy left except to tell her, "You are sly, princess. Do you realize, princess, how troublesome you are?"

She hums to herself, genuinely thinking about it. "A handful?" After she takes the sight of me then, she smiles apologetically. Soon, she is spooning two bowls of soup, she joins me at the table.

"Herb soup?" I almost laugh.

Rio cocks her head to the side. "You don't want to? Well, I suppose you won't after eating eat everyday."

"No, no. It's just…" I struggle to find the right word. "Amusing. Strangely enough, I haven't gotten tired of it yet."

"I'm glad." She says before I take in a spoonful.

The heat is a wonderful respite from the cold. The flavors burst in my mouth: thyme and rosemary. And yet, despite having used different herbs, the taste is still achingly familiar. Then, it hits me.

"You. You're the one making the soup. Not Dunhill." I stare at her in disbelief.

She looks taken aback herself. I sound like I'm accusing her of a crime. In a way, I probably am. "I thought you knew especially after yesterday. It seems odd to mention Dunhill now that I think about it… you really didn't know?"

"Because, you've never really looked at me before. How could I think that?"

My voice sounds like defeat and I hate it. But what I hate more is the fact that she doesn't say anything. She won't say anything because she knows exactly what I'm taking about. She didn't see me at all.

I want to question her, shake her but I can't even make my eyes meet hers. I'll only be subjected to her pity and that so much worse. I can only look down at the table. The Genovese pasta is at the center. Then how did she know it was my favorite dish? From Dunhill, maybe. But why did she bother making it now, for me? The bowl of herb soup sits in front of me and it's like a shock goes through my body.

She might not have looked my way but she knew I was there. That was proof, wasn't it? I'm grasping at straws here but I want to hold this hope like a candle within me.

I take a leap into the abyss. "What did you mean by 'nice to meet you'?"

She is silent for a few seconds – an eternity. "Precisely what it sounds like."

"We met during the summer. It's winter." I say, matter-of-factly.

"Yes."

Somehow, I know she won't answer me so I try to pin her down with my stare. She beats me to it though as she locks me in her gaze. Her eyes telling me I had the answer.

What changed? Between that first date and yesterday, what changed?

Again, Rio's right because I do know. While I was trying too hard to impress her the first time, I had given up on that pretense yesterday. Only by chance though, as long as I'm being honest here. Because if she hadn't tried to go back in the rain like an idiot, I wouldn't have lost my composure.

I wouldn't have asked her to stay.

So, did she intend to do that? Is she really more cunning than she looks? I look at her now, feel the weight of her gaze and I know she knows more. She knows there's a lot more about me, more than I intend to show. That's when, for the first time, I'm scared to have her eyes on me.

She must have sensed it, my fear, because it feels like she just backed down as she turns back to her food. The rest of the meal is spent with idle chatter, surprisingly enough, with her asking about her cooking skills. She's back to her air-headed self. Or maybe that was her real self. What do I know of this woman anyway? I let myself be swept away with it regardless. By the end of it, I feel myself fall back into routine. I can't let this woman unnerve me. I won't.

"Your hair is a mess." I comment.

Her hands crawl up to her messy ponytail. She laughs.

"I can comb your hair for you."

She perks up at the suggestion. "I think I have a comb or brush th-"

Rio starts to walk towards the dresser when her knees buckle under her. She falls backward, too close to the sharp edge of the wooden table. It happens so fast but slow at the same time. A falling crystal flashes before my eyes just as reflex takes over and I dive in after her. I pull her into my arms and we hit the floor as a bundle of tangled limbs. Her body presses into mine - soft and pliant. I bat those thoughts aside and concentrate on the more pressing issue: She's hot (literally and slightly figuratively), burning up. How could I forget she was sick in the first place?

"I'm… sorry," she whimpers, her breath tickling my neck. I think of telling her that it's not her fault she had a fever but then, I'm not sure what she's apologizing for. I push myself upright, cradling her with me. With a hand under her knees and another scooping her by the shoulders, I place her back on the bed. Gingerly, I tuck her in. I lift her head and pull her hair from under her to keep them from getting anymore tangled. She watches me as I do. "The brush-comb is in the middle drawer, I think."

"Let's leave it for another time, princess."

"Promise."

"Promise," I repeat.

She falls asleep then but unlike earlier, she's on her back with her hands clasped together under her chest. When she looks like that, it's not impossible to mistake her as the sleeping princess from those kid's books. She might be the princess that's waiting for a prince's kiss to wake her up. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to try. Except, now I know she's unlike those princesses or the other girls, for that matter. She's dangerous – in more ways than one.

_The End._

_A/N: Sorry I haven't updated sooner. I was busy with my other oneshot for Tales of Vesperia called 'Beautiful Contrast'. Please do check it out if you have the time _

_We're almost at the climax of the story and I'm so excited to deal with all this inner turmoil! Hope you look forward to it! Please tell me what you think and leave a review or even PM me ;)_

_To Harvest moon: Thank you very much! I like making Allen struggle a bit too. Kind of a payback for his jerk-ish ways haha. Hope you like this chapter!_


	8. Chapter 7: Puzzle Pieces

**Chapter 7: Puzzle Pieces**

I've said this before and I will say it again. I may be _the best_ but I am not good. I am not nice; and I am especially bad in the morning. So, I can't really blame myself when the first words out of my mouth are "What the hell are you doing here?"

The blonde farmer stands at the doorway, flashing me a toothy smile. "You promised me you'd brush my hair."

"I don't recall setting that appointment at six in the morning." I grumble, pushing back my glasses to the bridge of my nose. It is a flimsy filter for the weighty glare I am shooting her right now.

She looks down to her mud-encrusted shoes. At least she has the decency to look abashed. "Well, with the farm work set for today, this is the only time I have," she tells me.

"Tough luck, I am not working at this ungodly hour, princess. Looks like you're going to have to come back later. When it's reasonable." I'm about to shut the door in her face when she hands me back my own words, "There's nothing you can't do, right?"

I forgot Rio was an even harder nut to crack. I mentally weigh which I value most. My pride or my comfort? I groan.

"Geez. Just take a seat already." I step to the side, letting her in. "And take off your dirty shoes."

* * *

"You're never going to get a man," I growl as I tackle the abominable mess that is her hair. Fortunately, the treatment I gave her a day ago is still in effect. It won't be as maddening trying to unravel the beast.

"I should be paid for this." I ramble on thoughtlessly though I don't really care about money right now. It's just the bed is waiting upstairs and I haven't even had a cup of coffee and-… I haven't forgotten yesterday. My gut keeps chanting it in my head – _dangerous, dangerous; she's dangerous. _And yet, here I am, combing her hair like a damned nanny just because of a thoughtless remark. When did I sink so low?

"Oh, how much does a brushing cost?" She asks innocently, blissfully unaware of my inner conflict.

"Combing" I say automatically. I sigh. Even I think I'm being unreasonable, which is new. "And no, I was just kidding."

"You're still right though." She clasps her hands under her chin. "You're a professional. Your services should be duly compensated."

"Most people don't refuse generosities, especially when it is free." She stares up at me anyway, like a puppy waiting on its master. My guard is down though I know nothing.

"Stories," I sputter out, surprising both of us. "Tell me… stories."

She smiles, and I have the vague sense of the calm before the storm, which, as it turned out, was precise. Precise, not accurate.

* * *

She began with the beginning, fittingly enough, and with her eyes closed. She told me about her first memory: the sound of her mother's gentle scolding, the smell of detergent, the feel of fabric scraping against her tender cheeks and the warmth of her father's broad back. She told me about her first day in school – the scent of the breeze, the color of her uniform (green, she tells me) and the color of that sky that day (gray). She told me of her first school trip without her parents and how she cried so hard she hardly saw the view from the window of the moving bus.

My hands moved to the cadence of her voice, spinning on and on like the spool of thread. She told me bits and pieces of her life. From there, I pieced together the puzzle that was_ her_. It felt like between the two of us, she invented a game. And I decided I liked this game.

She told me many things, things that might have sounded trivial to others. They were things that I never thought I'd bother listening to but I did. It was an immersion as opposed to a narration. For every word was a picture painted in my mind; in her voice, the world naturally came alive.

With every word, my guard crumbled - a little bit.

* * *

"It seems you had it pretty sweet. Makes me wonder why a girl like you would even want to be stuck here."

She grows quiet suddenly. She takes a breath as if to compose herself, as if bracing for impact. "That's a loaded question," she mumbles finally.

"Yes, the life before this," She says like how one might remember the name of a distant relative. Her face falls for a second before breaking into a smile. But it is in that moment, the moment of the fall, that I get a glimpse of not only her, but of myself. "It's true I lived comfortably, at times leisurely. I ate what I wanted and had everything I asked for. I'm sure there are people who would have traded my life for theirs for anything..."

"But it wasn't for you," I finish for her, carefully avoiding meeting her eyes in the mirror.

"But it wasn't for me." She repeats. "Have you ever swam in a river when the current is strong?"

I shake my head although I can already feel the burnt of familiarity even before the torch is lit.

"Well, it felt like that for me. To some, the current would be a blessing. It was going to take me where I needed to go. And yet, it felt wrong. I didn't _want_ to go where I should be. I didn't want to just go with the flow. All my life, I had been doing just that. Once I realized that, I felt the raging desire to swim rather than float. With my own arms and legs, and with my own strength, I wanted seize life for myself."

She clears her throat once before continuing. "It was only by accident that I discovered the farm. It was just a subject that was tossed around the dinner table one evening. When I saw it, I pounced on it a bit too hungrily. Here was my chance to get out of that current. You may call me strange but when I saw just how barren the area was, I felt excited. All the better to prove myself, I said."

"You're right," I say, looping a strip of her hair into braid. "You _are _weird."

She laughs, but quickly falls back into a serious tone. "But, having spent almost a year with little progress, I'm starting to have an inkling of how naïve I was. Every time Dunhill comes knocking with the restoration plans, it feels like reality punched me in the bladder. I have still so much to do!"

Her shoulders slump against the chair. With her eyes still closed, I rush to finish the final details.

"That's conceited of you," I comment after a beat.

She takes this without a grain of salt. "It is," she agrees.

"The town is barely a point in the map." Again, she nods her assent.

"And before you," I begin, taking the cape off her. I bend down, whispering into her ear what she needs to hear. "There was no point. In the map, I mean. There was no point that said 'Echo Town'."

"Open your eyes, princess." Her lashes flutter open. Rio's blue irises grow as wide as saucers upon seeing her reflection. She raises her fingers and touches the glass. A small smile is on her lips, growing more radiant by the second.. She's enamored, enraptured by her reflection as I am with her… hairstyle. "You're right. You still have a lot of work to do. I won't pat you in the back just yet but… I personally don't think there's anything wrong with being conceited."

I've pulled her fringe away from her face, keeping it free from any stray strands. Essentially, it's a bun but with the braiding I've done, it is art. I even put in a few stems of flowers when she wasn't looking (although that means I have to get new flowers for my vase). I've also placed most of the weight of the bun at the edge of her crown, so she can…

"Keep your chin up, princess. Don't forget to look how far you have come too."

"Thank you," she says a little breathlessly. Rio twists around to face me, startling me. "A flower in bloom, right?"

My first instinct is to feign innocence but I'm too surprised to see her get the inspiration so fast I just nod. Either I am better than I thought or _she's_ better than _I _thought. More shocking is that I hardly give a damn now.

"I don't regret it," Her cheeks coloring a lovely shade of delighted pink. "Coming here, that is. I'm glad I went with it, blindly as I had. Because it this small little town, I felt my world expand. Growing stronger, learning more, meeting new people. Meeting…"

She turns to me - a sparkle in her eyes - and gives me a big toothy grin. "My cow, chickens and pets everyday! Animals are amazing! And adorable!"

"I think you broke me, princess." I huff.

"What?"

"Nothing." She peers up at me, the perfect image of oblivious. Then her eyes stray towards the window. Reflexively, I follow her gaze. The sun is high above – almost noon. Huh. Didn't realize we talked that long. Didn't think I worked that long.

She jumps up from her seat, sights already outside the door. But then she turns back, eyes lingering on her reflection. She doesn't tear her eyes away from the mirror when she asks, "Do you mind I come again?"

I smile. "Yes."

"Then I'll be here tomorrow too."

_The End._

_A/N: Sorry it took so long to post this. Trying to squeeze the most I can out of summer before I have to go to college. means bumming around more than usual! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this short and fluffy chapter! Leave a review, please!_

_P.S. I just realized how much I said "I'm almost at the climax" and I never get there so this time I won't. Haha. _


	9. Chapter 8: Secret Garden

_**Edited on 7/2/13:**_

**Chapter 8: Secret Garden**

_"Don't pick the flowers, Allen! They'll wither and die. That's cruel. Don't be cruel." _

_Cruel, she says, but she doesn't understand anything at all. No one does. _

_The counselor starts rambling about dealing with bitterness but __I only shrug off the old fart's nagging. Only I know myself. Only I know the truth: __Flowers live only to be beautiful. A flower does not become ugly because it wilts. It wilts because it is ugly._

_In that way, I've always thought that man resembled flowers more than animals, and more than anything else._

* * *

Among all flowers, I've grown to like sunflowers the most; which is stupid of me, all things considered. With its glaring yellow and wide facet, it is no match to the elegance of the rose. Nor does it have the sweet scent of jasmines. It doesn't smell like anything. Period. Not even when I hold its petals between my fingers and crush it in my palm (_I am not kind and I never have been_). They're just something that feels so damn honest about them, and it grates on my nerves. In spite of all that, a small part of me grows melancholic when it withers. Roses and jasmines be damned.

Despite last night's snowfall, the sunflowers are still perfectly alert with their stems upright. Their faces are already turned towards the sun in worship. Another reason to like sunflowers - they are so disarmingly persistent.

I still don't know how Rio does it, really. How the hell can anyone grow sunflowers in the middle of winter? Better yet, how the hell does build houses so fast? If I didn't know any better, I'd swear some kind of magic is involved here. But then, I _do_ know better. I might as well believe in Harvest Sprites if I didn't.

So I have no choice but to believe in the alternative: she's just that damn good. Almost my level, I'd say, but she needn't know that just yet. She bothers me too much as it is. She made good on her word that day and came the day after, and thankfully not at the crack of dawn. Then she came again the next day, the day after that, and on and on. She came at odd times too. During lunch, dinner and worst of all, at the strike of midnight (Damn the lack of locks in this town). It was cute the first few times, especially since she came to bring presents everyday. But then she starting to find it amusing to "_create a balance_". There are times when she bursts through the door, carrying Genovese pasta or herb soup in an effort to raise my spirits - Great! Unfortunately, on "_good days_", she'd drop pot stickers in my hands; no matter how many times I told her I would never accept it. "_You can't have too much of a good thing," _she'd just say with only the slightest tilt of her lips - a secret - and taunt in her voice. That doofus.

The sides of my mouth dangerously quirk up. I have to wrestle with it to push it back into a believable frown.

"What are you doing?"

I turn towards the voice automatically, recognising it immediately. As if called by my thoughts, she stands before me, already suppressing a laugh. The idea, and now the presence, of her outside the four corners of the salon, of my home, is jarring though it shouldn't be. I'm in the middle of her garden, after all. It was my choice to step inside her display, her world.

Our eyes meet at the same time. Hers are alive and bright like always, joyous even, as if an unexpected meeting like this is a small miracle. In some ways, it is. I've dropped in a couple of times here before - always alone - searching for a muse, an inspiration (Michelle was looking for a new style, and pink is so hard to work around). Only now do we meet, on this cold winter day. I'd laugh at her simple-mindedness, if only I didn't have the nagging feeling that I had the same look going on. It must be the hair, which now falls like silk around her shoulders. Each strand shines like golden thread. Her fringe frames her small face perfectly, drawing the eyes to the best of her features. Beautiful - What else can I expect from treating and twisting her tresses every damn day?

We stand there for a minute, letting our minds register each other. Then habit takes over as I grandly gesture towards the bench conveniently placed within the garden area. "_Lucky for you, my office of style is wherever I am_" I want to say but from the tilt of her head, it looks like she already heard it without a word passed between us. But instead of sitting down, she pulls me down beside her. "_Let's just talk today," _she says but not really.

Before meeting her, I never noticed how important it was to talk to a client as I worked. It used to be that I just zoned out, thinking a customer would appreciate it better if I give it my all on the service they paid for. But with her, silence gradually became insufficient. Or rather, she filled the silence with words. She pulled a part of my consciousness with her voice. I would listen, then speak - because sometimes, speaking was a measure of listening. And it was easy, to talk and listen, to converse with her. I suppose it was because we had been strangers with everything to tell. Or maybe we were strangers with nothing on our shoulders, no expectations to carry. (She is a farmer and I am a genius stylist. That is all.) Nevertheless, words exchanged became another intimacy between us. Silence and words are now equally important.

_Let's just talk today. _

I start the ball rolling with a compliment for a change, which she of course laughs off. In turn, she talks about the weather. In a normal conversation, I would leave in heartbeat at a pathetic attempt for small talk. But with her who has an over the top hand flails for everything, it's usually entertaining. Not today though. Not when my eyes catch sight of the angry welt on her arm. When she notices me eyeing it, she pushes it behind her back. I sigh.

"I seem to recall telling you once before to stop running the old man's errands. He's using you, princess." I pull her hand from behind her, examining it with light touches what might be a bruise tomorrow. "Of course, you're foolish enough to let yourself be used."

"That's… mistrusting of you," she says, since she can't deny it herself. Not fully, at least. I gather a handful of snow from the ground and wrap it with my handkerchief before pressing it against her flushed skin.

"I was born a cynic, princess. But you…" I trail off, struggling to find the right words. She purses her lips and takes the ice pack herself. "You act as if you've never been hurt before."

She looks somewhere far off before turning to me again. "That's only because..." Immediately, I know I won't like what I'll hear by the way her eyes grow serious and intense. It's a look that drags me back years into the past, sending warning signals into my head. "Your walls are so high."

Fuck. She said it. How many times have I heard that ridiculous phrase before? Mom, Rod's mom, my sister and that damned school counselor. How many times have I seen strangers look at me with that question in their expressions? Don't they realize it's hopeless? Do they really think that just because I have my walls up, I'm hiding something? Something good? Fuck that._ I am not kind and I never have been._ I won't trick myself into believing otherwise. I am not good but I am the best at what I do. At least, at least.

"Don't, princess!" I bark, harsher than I intended. And maybe that's better. I can't face her. Not like this, so I stand up to leave. Walk away. Just walk away.

"Allen-"

"Just don't! I don't want to take this shit from you!" _Especially you whom I have come to trust._ I should keep walking before I say anything I could regret but my feet weigh like lead, buried in the snow. Out of all people, it's her that I don't want to be judged by. And mistakenly at that. Then again, maybe because it's her that I say my peace anyway. "You're just wasting your time if you think I'm one of those guys. I am not some emotional wreck you need to patch up. I know I'm cruel so don't look for a golden heart because there is none. You're better looking somewhere else." _Or at someone else. Like Neil_, I think bitterly. _Like Rod_.

"You're wrong." she says, calmly but sternly. I can sense the weight of her stare on me. Even without looking back, I know she's still on her seat, possibly tracing the welt with her freezing fingers. "You are kind."

"Don't give me that crap, princess."

"You are kind." She repeats, as if trying to hammer it in my head. "I wouldn't bother spending time with you if I thought otherwise. I'm not that big of a fool to befriend a cruel man."

My hands stay fisted at my sides. "I-"

"Granted, you are kind not in the way others are. However, everyone struggles with kindness. There are different types of kindness in this world. Yours is special. It lies in your work: In the way you wrap the cape around my neck, securely and comfortably. In your touch, which is gentle or steel when it needs to be. Pulling my arm so easily and pressing on my pain softly! ...In the way you carefully plan out what to do for each customer. The way you keep them in mind all the time. Preciously. Honestly. _Kindly_."

Rio is singing praises about a man who bears the same name as I do. Familiar, yet not at all. I just stand there, rooted on the spot. She goes on: "Your words may be brash and cutting but they have never been far from the truth. That is another kindness, I believe."

"But for me, you are at your kindest when it's late in the night. By the glow of the streetlight. When you're hunched over your desk, scribbling down your next big idea. When you are thinking of _what else can you do_."

"How do you-" I give in, and turn back to her even though I don't know what exactly I want to ask. I turn to see her; because I want to see the person reflected in her eyes. What kind of man does she _really _see?

Except, she's not there anymore. She's already walking away, leaving footprints in the snow. My soaked handkerchief rests lazily on the bench. The ice inside has melted into chunks having warmed by her heat.

Walk away, walk away. Leave me completely dumbstruck - dumbstruck and raw and a bit lonely. All the while, the sunflowers stand as sentinels do, having watched our little show without a fuss.

In the end, it doesn't matter if my walls are high or not. She's breaking them down anyway.

_The End._

_A/N: Done! Finally! Haha. Sorry for the late update. First week of college got me busy._

_Hopefully, I can update sooner this time. I bet the reviews will help move things along *wink wink*_

_Hope you liked this one! Tune in for the next chapters by clicking on the follow button too!_


	10. Chapter 9: Between The Lines

_A/N: I just edited the chapter before this. (Glob, thinking about how many things I got wrong there makes me want to claw myself for publishing it half-baked.) Anyway, before reading this chapter, I strongly recommend going through that again first. With the additional work I put in it, I feel that the points I pushed resonated better. And that the Allen's character was more tightly woven. Plus, the references I've put there will make much more sense when reading the succeeding chapters. Thank you for bearing with me *cries* (I swear one day I am going to edit everything from start to finish!)_

**Chapter 9: Between The Lines**

* * *

_Love has no reason._

* * *

"Allen," a clear voice that is now as familiar as my own beckons me over. The blonde and her smile - both of these already in place. Rio is safely tucked in her seat – _the_ _second to the right. _I don't know when the sight of her had become natural, but it is.

I take my place behind her with the surrealism of rightness she always brings. Gradually, I have learned not to question it. Not since that warm winter day. I never thought I would, given my skeptic tendencies but with her, I am always at a loss anyway.

I am swept by routine, lost in it. Wrapping the cape around her, taking her to the sink to wash her hair, leading her back. However, there's still a part of my subconscious that is stubbornly aware of everything – her breath, her fluttering eyelashes and the unmistakable sound of her laugh for she laughs at the slightest things.

I am aware of everything but time. Winter had never been as warm, and spring had crept in unnoticed. A part of me believes it is all because of her. It's as if her presence alone kept the cold at bay. She called the light that I didn't know I had craved until she shone it upon me - rather forcefully, with her words and non-words.

When words are hung and silence is uttered, time simply stops existing.

* * *

"_I like it when you touch my hair. _Your fingers are so soft, smooth and slender. So unlike mine."

"Stupid princess, why do you sound so embarrassed?"

"Hm, I was sure you would tell me it's unbecoming of a woman."

"That's true. Usually, I would. But your fingers – your callouses and scars – they become you specifically."

"How so?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? They are proof of your hard work. Isn't that what you've been going for all along?"

"...I'm sorry. You're right."

"You sound surprised? Of course, I am. And you don't apologize for things like this. It's more appropriate to say-"

"Thank you."

* * *

"Thank you, Allen. Today's work is beautiful as well."

"Princess, how many times have I told you there is no need to state the obvious?"

"I've lost count, to be honest. Haha."

"Do a better job of keeping track next time then."

"You'll always be Allen, huh?"

"Pardon?"

"With your pride, I mean. So proud of your work."

"Is that wrong? I would think I deserve to-"

"Be indulged with praises for the masterpieces you do. I know. There's nothing wrong with it. That's even one of the things I admire you for."

"You... do. Right."

"Stupid Allen, why do you sound so embarrassed?"

"Heh. Should have seen that one coming. Nice one, princess."

* * *

"You're like a cat, Allen. Sure-footed, lithe, self-sufficient…"

"Dogs are more my style, princess."

"Figures. Like repels like."

* * *

"You're always smiling, huh, princess? Careful now. Things that aren't rare lose their value faster."

"Not smiles. Never smiles."

"Maybe, but I still wish you'd save your smiles just for me."

* * *

"That ring dangling around your neck. That's your father's, isn't it?

"Yes… how'd you guess?

"You told me."

"I don't recall being forthcoming with that piece of information."

"You told me. Every time you cradle it in your palm, that's what I'm getting."

"… Your eyes are as keen as ever, princess…"

"I'm sorry he left."

"Don't be. Not when you don't mean it. Not when it isn't your fault. Besides, it's no use crying over spilled milk."

* * *

"Damn it, princess. You keep making me contradict myself."

* * *

"What? You're unusually quiet today, princess. I don't work for free, you know."

"…"

"Ah, well, maybe this is better for today."

* * *

Rod leans his hip on the edge of the set table (Two plates remain untouched though the sun is high in the sky). In the crook of his elbow, tucked in his crossed arms, is a crumpled sealed envelope. Allen pays no heed to his presence, choosing to ignore the bearer of bad news. His back is to Rod, his face inches away from the glass of the closed window. His eyes land on the unmistakable gold of the farmer's hair.

Rod purses his lips, he himself reluctant to proceed with his task. He thinks once, twice, and opts to distract both of them first. "You still haven't told me your mystery girl's name, Allen. What kind of friend does that make me?"

"The blockhead." Allen promptly replies.

The pet dealer sighs. "How about, in exchange for telling me her name, I'll tell you who I'm smitten with right now."

"Nope. Not interested."

"That's just mean, Allen!"

The redhead doesn't react. His attention is not in the room but elsewhere. Rod, from where he is standing, cannot see what exactly has his friend distracted – just as Allen had planned.

"You must love her, surely," Rod says suddenly, but surprisingly, the stylist isn't caught off guard at all. He has thought about it frequently enough that he's certain of his reply. Thus his next words are said calmly and without hesitation:

"No, I don't love her."

Outside, there are no clouds in sight. It is just pure sunshine falling down on her, and she is oblivious to it.

_This is not love_, he says to himself, convinced, _for love has no reason and I still have the pieces of what remains of mine._

If love truly has no reason, then what he feels isn't that. It's something far greater and less noble. It's greed - a desire that has grown so primal it half-terrifies him. To him, she is like sweet wine whose presence he savors more and more as time passes. Her smile, her eyes and her calloused fingers. Her warmth, her light. Everything. He wants to keep Rio all to himself.

It is greed, it is lust. Even still, there are other feelings left unclear. Like those that are so eerily close to happiness and joy. But how could that be when they are unwanted and delirious by themselves? It mystifies him so greatly that he lies awake in bed some nights just revelling rather than unraveling.

But that's it. That's as far as it can go. For he knows within himself that he doesn't love her.

_Love has no __reason._

To call this love would be naive and foolish. He _knows why_ he feels for her (which is why he claims love is untrue). And it is this: To bask in the light that is her, if only just for a little bit longer. That is all.

_The End._

_A/N: I hope you liked that however short it might be! I really wanted to emphasize the importance of talking between the two of them is which is why I forewent with the narration. I hope it isn't too confusing without them though! _

_I'm not sure when I will be able to update this since college workload is tougher shizz than I thought it would be! But rest well, I will be keeping this story in mind all the time! Until then, please leave a review or maybe even follow! Thank you!_

_**Edit (2/3/13)**: Someone had commented that Allen's thoughts at the end was confusing. I'm sorry I'm incompetent with this. Ugh. I can't think of a better way to convey this thought in the story without being in your face so here's the compromise! If anyone else is confused, this is my take on it (feel free to interpret it in your own way):_

_Basically Allen's train of thought is this: Love is irrational because it has no logic/reason. You're supposed to love someone without not knowing why but loving that person anyway. For Allen, he explains that he feels the way he because Rio makes him feel happy. Well, not exactly happy because it transcends ordinary happiness. That is why he "loves" being with her. That is a reason to want to be with her so his feelings are not completely illogical._

_If you want to close read Allen himself, you can say he is grasping at straws. He doesn't want to believe he could love her, or anyone for that matter. Hence the "you keep making me contradict myself" on my part as a writer._

_Another point would be this: we can infer that he doesn't look as Rio as an equal but more of someone he cannot hold. __Rio is "warmth and light", he says. _He's put her on a pedestal without even realizing it. And this makes it possible to argue that it isn't love as well for to love someone on a romantic level is to see them as equals. You adore them but you still see them as an equal._  
_

_So he doesn't love her. Not unless he comes to terms with the idea of holding onto her. It's something I plan to explore in the next chapter so look forward to it (please) :)_


	11. Chapter 10: Sunflower Scent

**Chapter 10: Sunflower Scent**

_I picked you up from your soil and defiled you. And yet I fell in love with your smile. – Northern Cross (Macross Frontier)_

* * *

The rays of the dying sun glints off the gush of water falling from the cliffs above. The water rages on, undaunted, until it crashes on the rocks below. The sound echoes deafeningly, drowning out the sound of spring – drowning out the sound of my heart.

I feel the continuous spray of water (it is cold), and taste dew in the air. I plop down on the grass as I dangle my legs over the drop – so long, so far. After tossing my glasses overhead, I lie down on the damp grass. The blades of green crawl against the fabric of my tailored clothes; still I lay motionless.

It is cold. It is loud, and it is quiet. It is nearing the dark.

With an arm under my head, the back of my hand over my eyes and the bleeding sky over everything else, I can almost pretend that the world does not exist. Almost.

Something falls down next to me. No, a _someone_ does. The thin, long strands of hair – more irritating than the grass underneath – dance around my face. Even without opening my eyes, I can tell she is staring down at me with those penetrating blue eyes. They are the same eyes that I don't want to meet. Not right now – especially right now.

I turn to my side without a word, but the crinkle of the envelope in my pocket destroys the indifferent atmosphere. I open my eyes instinctively, only to find the ring directly in front of my face. I close my fist around it. The rounded edges cut into my skin with the coolness of metal. Even after all these years, it still feels like my hand is too small and too fine for it.

I bite back the resentment that threatens to spill. Futile. Hate is too merciless and relentless, like the thundering waterfall.

It is cold. It is loud, and it is quiet. That is until Rio leans her small back against mine – letting her body heat creep in – and speaks: "I like watching the sunset from here too."

"Did you come here to watch the sunset then?" I ask, monotone.

She shrugs, the vibration transferring onto my back so I know. "No, but I might as well."

The water rages on, making it impossible for the wanted silence to interrupt.

"Why does one watch the sunset?" She asks which she promptly answers herself. "_Because one is so sad."_

I shut my eyes again, tightly. "You are too attached to your fairytales, princess."

"Sometimes, they are all a person has."

Surprise prompts me to turn her but it only sets her off balance. Before I know it, she falls on top of me and knocks the air out of me. She scrambles to get off me. With her hands flailing around, she looks like a fish out of water. It would be hard not to laugh but even harder to do so what with the 'can't-breathe-almost-dying' situation.

She finally manages to sit up and I push off the ground after her. "You are surprisingly heavy, princess."

"That is all muscle mass." She boasts shamelessly with a toothy grin to match.

I smile but I caught myself quickly enough. I choose not to be happy at this moment.

My breath is caught between a sigh and a grunt. "You really need to respect a man's alone time."

Her eyes fall on something behind me. I look back. The envelope lies open and crumpled on the grass, giving a peek at the angrily crammed letter inside. "And you need to respect your friends' instinct to comfort you – of not letting you be alone."

"Rod?" I ask out of 'courtesy', I suppose.

She nods once. I need to have a talk with him later, damn it. But at least knows better than to turn up in front of me…

"Well, _dear friend_, you should know well enough that I don't need comfort. What happens to _him_ is not my concern anymore."

"Even if he is dying? Even if he is your father?"

I grind my teeth. "_Was_. He _was_ my father."

She bites her lip, lost in thought. "You must have loved him so, didn't you, Allen?"

Something pops inside me. A blood vessel maybe. "And I thought I was being perfectly clear that I hated him. Or are you that thick-headed today, princess?"

I am taken back by the toxicity of my own words. So much hate that I can't muster an apology. I am taking it out on her but Rio doesn't look hurt at all, which only angers me further. No matter how hard I grind her, she never breaks. Why?!

She chews the insides of her cheek before speaking, more gently this time but clear enough to pierce through the sound of the water crashing below. "How deeply betrayed you must have felt then. So deeply that you've come to hate someone you love."

I almost choke. "How could I love that bastard? He left my mother, my sister and I to fend for ourselves. I had to grow up faster to a point that I needed to be better than him, than anyone else! Do you know how it feels to carry the weight of a family on your shoulders? I couldn't hold onto my fairytales; not like you."

Right. I am nothing like her. My whole body is shaking as I force out the words: "He betrayed us – but more importantly, he betrayed me!"

I'm breathing hard. She waits for me to calm down before she speaking again. It feels calculated, her calmness, like the tense atmosphere before the gunfire; when bullets are being loaded.

"That's why. You loved him, and he left despite it." So she fires. "He left a whole so big that only something as strong as hate could fill it. Yes, you hate him but you love him too. You wouldn't keep his ring so close to your heart if you didn't."

Ah. Her words ring true inside the hollowness of my chest, bringing out a montage of images I had kept under a lock but never forgotten: his broad back as I clung to him, the same apple-red hair as mine, the time he taught me how to draw (badly), the smell of his aftershave…

My hand finds the ring once more, seemingly lighter than before. How long has it been since I last heard his voice? Even though his was always angry and loud during those dark nights, I did not forget its gentleness as well - his voice growing quieter as he told me good night. When he told me he loved me, and when he called me son.

The truth is, I knew it wasn't all his fault. Mom had been shouting during those nights too. But why didn't I come to hate her as well? Because she stayed. And father left.

When was the last time I saw him as my father? Before he opened that door and closed it forever. Ah, I remember, that time I was crying 'daddy'. That time, I thought I was too old to cry...

My sight grows blurry. I can't stop it now. Not the torrent of memories, not the wetness in my eyes. "Please leave me alone, princess. I don't want you too see me like this." _I can't bear for you to see me this weak._

"Then I won't look." She turns her back to me so that she's facing the sun that's well on its way on the horizon. She covers her eyes with her hands for good measure.

A chuckle bubbles up my throat. "Can you please, just this once, listen to me?"

"I don't want to break the trend now. Besides, you aren't meant to be alone."

And that's it. I am defeated. Completely, devastatingly, blissfully, defeated.

"No, we don't."

I lean into her then. My arms wrap themselves around her shoulder unabashedly and I press my face into the curve of her neck, into her hair that I never dared defiled with my colors. For some reason, it tasted like salt water and smelled like sunflowers.

She cranes her head toward me, exactly like a sunflower would. But I know very well by now I am not the sun, and this flower cannot live without light. Sooner or later, surely, it will die. It will die with me. I can't let her die. I won't. But…

So today, just until the sun disappears from the sky and the darkness sets in, I will keep her caged in my arms. Surely, I will be forgiven.

"Allen?" She faces me, her hand gripping my arms. Her voice is so delicate that it breaks me, undoes me completely. Everything about her, what she says and even what she doesn't – all of it is unmaking me.

"Princess- no, Rio." I whisper into her hear and it is a plea, a prayer. "Don't make me hate you."

_Don't make me love you._

_But it's too late._

* * *

The broken man hugged his flower tightly, almost painfully. But, this man who did not fear the loss of anything but the sunflower, did not realize that she had clung to him just as desperately.

* * *

_A/N: Another chapter done! *throws confetti* I told you guys Allen was angsty. _

_I think this was the chapter I was most excited to write about. So I'm happy I can finally deliver it!_

_From here, it's only a few more chapters until the end (unless, I think up something more! Then again, it might just be better to write it separately…). Thank you very much for all you guys patronage until now! I hope you look forward to the next few chapters! And do please review! Because it makes me so happy when I receive reviews! And it really does make me write faster. Dahurhurhur._

___Also, fun fact! This is why I chose to name the avatar 'Rio' as opposed to 'Rachel'. What comes after the angry waterfall? The calmer, nourishing river. And Rio means 'river'. (And Rio is just cuter for a girl!)_

_P.S. The part about sunsets and sadness is inspired by The Little Prince wherein there's a quote that goes: "One watches sunsets when one is so sad."_

_P.P.S. I am perfectly aware that a sunflower has no distinct scent as I have mentioned a chapter before. Sooooo, have fun putting your own insight into that! *wink wink* _


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